


With Nobody But You

by coricomile



Series: Dance, Dance AU [2]
Category: Bandom, Fall Out Boy
Genre: M/M, dance dance au
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2011-09-17
Updated: 2011-09-17
Packaged: 2017-10-23 19:44:09
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Underage
Chapters: 1
Words: 4,337
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/254159
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/coricomile/pseuds/coricomile
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>The aftermath.</p>
            </blockquote>





	With Nobody But You

**Author's Note:**

  * For [likeasugarcube](https://archiveofourown.org/users/likeasugarcube/gifts).



Lewis stares after the van, hands balled at his sides. He feels stupid and incredibly young, face hot and pants still damp in the front. Martin looks sheepish, his suit jacket dangling from his fingertips, an unfamiliar hat pulled down low over his ears.   
"So, that didn't go well," he says after a moment, shuffling for the passenger's side of the truck. The truck shakes when he closes the door, old and tired.

Lewis can't look at the back of the pickup, can't think about the last half hour, pressed up warm and content and hot against Martin- Patrick, really. Patrick, who tried to tell him the truth.

And that's what makes it worse, he supposes. That he hadn't been fooled, hadn't been cheated. He'd jumped in headlong and made an idiot out of himself. There's nothing he can say to defend that. 

The cab of the truck has gone cold, the chill from autumn sinking in through the windows and sticking to Lewis' skin. Martin smiles at him. This close, Lewis can see things he'd forgotten. There is no scar through the soft bridge of Martin's eyebrow, the gather of freckles under Martin's left eye that had been absent. 

Lewis starts up the truck and pulls out of the lot, aiming toward his mom's place. It had seemed like a good idea before, for Martin to stay with him, but now Lewis feels twitchy, stiff and uncomfortable near him. 

"So, how was Patrick?" Martin asks, and Lewis' stomach drops. He tries to remember if he's got any marks, any signs that say  _someone was here_ , but he can't think of any.

"What?" He asks, throat closing. Martin raises his eyebrows, his hair loose around his face. 

"The singer? Was he cool?" 

Lewis breathes out slowly, chest loosening. He feels guilty; like he lied. Here's Martin, his best friend since sandbox days, and Lewis can almost see what he'd look like naked, what he'd look like when he's getting off in the back of the pickup they'd bought together with newspaper routes and creative bets with John and Mark from homeroom. 

"Yeah," he says, turning onto the road that leads out of town and out into the country. His house is ten minutes through the backroads, and he's driving slow to miss ice and deer. 

"And?" Martin asks. He looks earnest, interested. Lewis shrugs. He doesn't want to fucking talk about it. 

Martin catches on, or picks now to shut up, or something, and Lewis is grateful. The ride home seems to take forever, silent and tense. Lewis feels like he's been hit by a flash of lightning, left stunned and confused and sore.   
The heat kicks in when they pass over the creek, the engine puttering quietly, and Lewis grits his teeth. Now is not a good time for a break down, and that's what's going to happen, he already knows is. He knows it like he knows his own name.

They make it down to the first bend before the truck gives a mighty heave and slows to a stop. Lewis grips the wheel, aims for the side of the road, and tries not to punch the dashboard out of frustration. The lights in the cab flicker once, twice, and then go off as he hits gravel. 

"Fuck," he says under his breath. "Fuck."

"Awesome," Martin agrees. He reaches for the keys in the ignition, his elbow brushing across Lewis' chest as he pulls them out. "Looks like we're walking."

Lewis tugs his coat tight around his shoulders as Martin locks up, hunched in on himself. He just wants to go home and sleep. It's a long weekend, and Martin's not supposed to go home until Sunday night, and Lewis just. Doesn't want to deal. 

They navigate the roads quietly. Martin's only got his suit jacket, and he's got it pulled in tight. It's too small for his shoulders, and ugly, and Lewis hates it because it's so familiar. This could be every other night in his life. This is not the revolutionary turn that he had thought it was. 

"Why'd you go?" Lewis asks when the truck disappears into the darkness behind them. Martin smiles to himself, face pink from the cold, and Lewis feels a hot stab of something angry and jealous in his stomach. 

"It's exciting," Martin says. "They thought I was in their band. How cool is that? How cool would it be if I were in a band?" He looks bright, staring off into the distance. "In the van? The bassist was all over me. Dude, did you see him?"

"He thought you were Patrick," Lewis says tightly. "He didn't want you." He thinks of Patrick's smile, thinks of the way he'd looked so desperate. Martin falters, his face unreadable in the dark. 

"That's kind of harsh," he says. Lewis bites his lip and keeps walking. The truth, sometimes, hurts. 

When they tiptoe into the kitchen, the clock over the oven reads four am in blinking green lights, the glow spilling over onto the floor. Martin looks sallow in the light, skin pasty and pale, but Lewis' chest still twists. He'd meant it when he'd said the word  _love_. It burns in his chest, constant. 

Their suit coats get tossed onto the living room table, and Lewis stashes his dress shoes in the closet while Martin kicks his off under the table, familiar and at home. They climb up the stairs in their socks, careful of the step that squeaks, and Lewis shuts the door to his bedroom when they're inside, locking in the heat.

"Is this, you know, not enough for you?" Lewis asks as he shucks out of his dress clothes. He feels shy, here, in the light of his room. Patrick had looked at him like he was awed, eyes big and mouth open and hands reaching. Martin doesn't look at all.

"What?" Martin's perfected the act of swapping shirts without actually being naked, the white of his dress shirt being replaced by the thin, old cotton of his marching band shirt with barely a flash of his pale, soft belly. 

"This," Lewis says. He pulls on his sleep shorts and crawls under the covers, heart playing double in his chest. 

Martin's slept over more times than Lewis can count, but tonight. Tonight Lewis doesn't think he'll be able to be next to him without doing something about it. His stomach turns as he thinks about it. Martin wants exciting and new. Martin wants to be in a band and sleep with rockstars, and all Lewis can offer is himself and his collection of all of Martin's favorite movies and CDs, cataloged by year. 

"Is Lima not enough?" Lewis asks Martin's back. The ugly grey trousers crumple to the floor, and Lewis sees the pale, lean lines of Martin's thighs under the legs of his green boxers. He thinks about the way Patrick's thighs had felt- hard muscle, soft skin, crinkly, fine hair- and shivers. "Do you really have to run away to be happy?"

"What, are you happy here?" Martin drops his glasses on the dresser, finally pulling the ridiculous hat off and placing it down gently. When he turns back around, he looks genuinely confused. It hurts, Lewis thinks, because he hadn't thought Martin's life was so bad. 

"Yeah," he says, voice caught in his throat. The raise of Martin's eyebrows is familiar, and Lewis can read it even in the dark.  _How? Why? Are you serious?_

Martin climbs in next to him, all knees, the last of his cologne sticking to his damp skin, the pillow that's been his since they were six already in his hands. He kicks at Lewis' legs until Lewis gives up the weird diagonal slant he's been laying at, pressing the cold arches of his feet to the backs of Lewis' calves when he's satisfied. 

"We live in a town that's going nowhere," Martin says. Lewis can almost taste his breath, warm and sweet and a little like the punch that had been at the dance. "We don't do anything, we don't go anywhere. What exciting story am I going to tell my kids someday? About that time we toilet papered the Jones block?" Martin punches his pillow, and when he looks at Lewis, he's not smiling. "Seriously, tell me one exciting thing you've done."

Lewis hates challenges, but there's anger boiling in the pit of his stomach and he's tired; of himself, of Lima, of dancing around the way Martin makes his chest ache. 

"I slept with Patrick tonight," he says. "Before you guys got back."

Martin stares openly before laughing. He says, "you're kidding, right?" It makes Lewis' stomach flip. Is he not good enough? Is that the entire point?

"No, actually." He shoves Martin's arms and legs away from his own, the cold seeping in where they had been touching, and turns on his side. "Just forget it."

There's a long pause, and Lewis closes his eyes. He's going to go to sleep and pretend it was all a dream. A really hot, really depressing dream. Martin's hand lands butterfly soft on his shoulder, and Lewis does his best not to jerk straight off the mattress. 

"You really did?" Martin asks, awed. Lewis shrugs. He doesn't want to talk about it anymore. The words stick in his throat, a ball of tension that's choking him. "Tell me about it, dude. That's, like, required best friend etiquette."

Lewis thinks,  _I thought he was you_. Thinks,  _I thought he was you and I was scared as hell_. When he speaks, though, he says, "he'd been left behind by his band and asked if I'd sit with him until they came back."

Martin pulls at his shoulder until Lewis is flat on his back, staring up at the dark ceiling. He remembers the time Martin had told him about his first kiss with Shawna Miller in sixth grade, the time he'd told Martin about maybe thinking more about Billy Decker the chess team's best player than Rachel Hawthorne the lead cheerleader. 

Martin's chin is cradled in the cup of his hand, his eyes open wide to see in the dark. His mouth is squished together weird from the pressure, and his hair is sticking up, the heavy smell of his hair gel thick in the room. 

"We talked about homecoming," Lewis lies. He goes hot at the thought of the fool he'd made of himself, of the way he'd dragged Patrick around like a headcase. "I told him about Becca-" here, Martin grins smugly- "and he was like, 'I can help you with your post dance blues' and kissed me."

"Post dance blues," Martin echoes. Lewis shrugs. He can almost feel Patrick's mouth sliding warm and wet against his, the weight of Patrick's hands on his shoulders. "Come on, what happened next?"

Lewis tells him about Patrick pulling him down to the truck bed, tells him about how weird it was to feel Patrick hard against his hip. He tells him how he'd left a bruise low on Patrick's throat, how hot it was to look and see that he'd been there. He admits to being a quick draw, which is almost as embarrassing now as it was then. 

"I don't really blame you," Martin says. He curls his fingers in Lewis' sleep shirt, tugging in time to the skipbeat rhythm of Lewis' heart. 

"I sucked him off," Lewis says in a rush. The words taste strange in his mouth. Martin's hand stills. 

"No way, dude." He's staring at Lewis' mouth, looking for evidence, and it makes Lewis squirm. Lewis licks his lips, and Martin's eyes track his tongue. 

"Grab my shirt," Lewis says. The breath flies from his chest as Martin uses him as a pushing post, rolling over to fish for Lewis' discarded shirt on the floor. His eyes narrow as he inspects it, mouth pursed. 

"Dude." Martin stretches the collar, thumb rubbing over the stain next to the buttonhole. "Dude." 

"Yeah." Lewis presses his palms into his eyes, starbursts exploding from the pressure. The look on Patrick's face when Lewis had asked him- when Lewis had-

"Dude," Martin says again. "What was it like?"

"I'm not having this conversation," Lewis says. He did his piece, got his reaction, and now he just wants to sleep. Martin drops his shirt. The soft sound of it hitting the floor is lost to the grunt startled out of Lewis when Martin rolls half on top of him.

"No way," Martin hisses. He pokes a finger into Lewis' face, close enough that his breath hits warm against Lewis' chin. "You can't not tell me."

"I can, and I'm not going to." Lewis squirms, but instead of knocking Martin off it brings Martin closer to him, knee slipping between Lewis' thighs. 

"No," Lewis says through the rush of blood in his ears. He shoves at Martin's shoulders, uncomfortable again. "Go have sex with your own rockstar." 

"Let me live vicariously though you," Martin wheedles. He goes limp, all his dead weight keeping Lewis pinned. "Tell me, man. I'd tell you."

"I can't explain it," Lewis says, deflecting. If he tried, he'd say something about the way Patrick had tasted, salty and heady, his cock heavy and hot against Lewis' tongue. He'd say something about how powerful- how  _attractive_ \- he felt, knowing that Patrick was watching and liking what he saw.

"Did you like it?" Martin asks instead. 

If it had been anyone else asking, Lewis would have shut down. He would have left, nevermind that it's his own room. But Martin looks like he really wants to know; like he's not going to laugh, no matter what Lewis' answer is. 

"Yeah," Lewis whispers. He's staring past Martin's shoulder, face on fire, half hard in his shorts. The mattress presses back against him as he shifts, trying not to be obvious about it. He can feel the weight of Martin's eyes on his mouth, fixated. It makes him uncomfortable, and excited and nervous, and if Martin doesn't get off of him soon, he's going to do something stupid.

"So." Martin's face is as red as Lewis' feels. Still, he says, "did you, like swallow?"

"Oh my god." Lewis squeezes his eyes shut. If he just pretends he's not here, he can probably avoid embarassment-based imploding. "I can't believe you just asked that."

"I can't believe you're giving rockstars blowjobs," Martin counters. He wiggles, the bare skin of his thigh rubbing against the inside of Lewis'. "Seriously, I want to know."

Lewis is not going to answer. He is going to go to sleep and wake up and be boring again. He is going to be the Guy in Chess Club With a Crush On His Best Friend, not the Guy Who Gives Head in the Parking Lot. Martin will hopefully forget he ever said anything, and Lewis won't have to murder him. 

"Come on," Martin whines. "Scientific question. You can't ignore a scientific question. It's against your basic beliefs."

"You can't use science against me," Lewis says. When he opens his eyes, Martin is grinning. He knows he's winning, and it pisses Lewis off that he knows so well. 

"I'm forming a hypothesis."

"On what?" Lewis asks, incredulous. 

"You'll just have to find out." Martin pushes Lewis' bangs away from his forehead, fingertips tapping against Lewis' cheek. "Come on. Did you?"

"He kind of," Lewis starts, squirming. Martin raises his eyebrows, waiting. 

"Well?"

"He kind of came on my face," Lewis quickly, the words tripping over themselves. Martin's eyes get big, round and dark in the dim light, and Lewis squirms again. 

"On your face?" Martin's fingers slide down Lewis' jaw, close but not quite to where Patrick had- and Lewis jerks away.

At the time, it had been kind of funny and really hot, and Lewis had planned on teasing Martin for weeks. Now, he just feels kind of dirty, and if he thinks to hard about it, he can almost feel the slide of it down his chin, wet and slick and warm. 

"Wow," Martin breathes. He's tracking the lines of Lewis' cheek and jaw, looking for something. "Was it-"

"I don't want to talk about it anymore," Lewis says. "Please."

Martin stares for a few long moments, but eventually he nods, biting his lip. He doesn't roll away, heavy and warm on Lewis' chest. He says, "you know you don't have to be embarrassed, right?"

Lewis shrugs. There's the first hint of dawn creeping into the room through the blinds, grey and purple bleeding onto his floor. He doesn't feel very different, for all that he's been through. Martin's still watching him, thumb tapping idly against Lewis' jaw. 

"So," Martin says quietly, his unfocused eyes going a little crossed to see Lewis better, "why him?"

And here, here Lewis falters. He could say, "because he's a rock star" or "because he's hot" or even "because  _he_  wanted me". He could say a lot of things, and most of them might even be true, but he's lazy with almost sleep and Martin warm above him and the knowledge that, somewhere, someone already knows that he's in love with Martin. That he's already spilled his secret. 

So he says, "because I thought he was you."

Martin goes very still. 

"Just; go to sleep. I'll take you home in the morning after we get the truck, and then we can act like we didn't go to this stupid dance in the first place." Lewis shoves at Martin's shoulders, palms braced against the sweeping hardness of his collarbones. 

Martin shoves back, legs going tight around Lewis' to keep balance. The parts of his hair that are still slicked back shine in the sunlight that's crawling over the bed, and in the breaking dawn, Lewis can see the candy apple red of Martin's cheeks clearly. He feels like he's on fire; like he's going to melt into the sheets and fall into the fibers. 

"Please," he says, soft. He's already gone through this once tonight. This isn't fair. 

"I don't know why Mark calls you the smart one," Martin says quietly. He smooths his fingertips through Lewis' hair, nails picking at the gel gently. "Your Literacy skills are lacking, and you always lose at chess, and your understanding of basic human emotion is elementary at best."

"Are you breaking out the nerd speak so I'll be surprised when you hit me?" Lewis asks. His chest feels full and warm, though, and he knows Martin. He  _knows_  him.

"Maybe," Martin says, and Lewis can taste the syllables.

Where Patrick had been strong, sure of himself, Martin is sweet and as unsure as Lewis, fingers curled under the soft spots of Lewis' ears, too heavy on Lewis' chest for him to breathe properly. Where Patrick had smelled like sweat and stage and the dark, Martin smells like boy and home and familiar. All of Patrick's efficiencies, all of his skill and technique, pales to the awkward fumbling of Martin's knees knocking against his under the sheets they'd made forts out of for years, hidden away in secret places just for themselves. 

There is no chill here, no whistling wind or glow from the school windows. Just him and Martin and the sounds of Lewis' sisters waking up in the next room over. There is no rush, because Lewis knows- he  _knows_ \- that this time is forever. 

Martin's hands slide down Lewis' chest, warm through his t-shirt, and there's a moment where everything goes topsy turvy. The sharp curve of Martin's knee sinks into the fleshy inside of Lewis' thigh, and the bed frame screeches as Martin topples over, and Lewis thinks that his sisters are probably wide awake now. 

"That could have gone better," Martin says. He's laughing, though, and Lewis laughs with him. Some of the whipcord tight tension eases out of Lewis' skin, fading away to a buzz. 

"It doesn't have to be over," Lewis says. When he leans in, his nose knocks against Martin's, and their shins bump under the covers as they try to fit themselves together. 

It was nice, Lewis supposes, being with someone who had an idea about what to do. 

Still, Martin tastes like punch and peppermint, his lips chapped and his chin rough with the stubble he'd missed when he shaved. His fingers are cold when they press against Lewis' sides, slotting into the spaces between his ribs like pieces of a jigsaw puzzle. 

Lewis wants to do like he did in the truck; wants to reach for Martin's shirt and yank it off, wants to slide down Martin's body and put his brand new skills to work. He wonders if Martin will look like Patrick did, head back and mouth wet and jaw going tight as he mouths Lewis' name. 

"Slow down," Martin gasps, breath damp and warm against Lewis' lips, tongue sliding to trace the corner of Lewis' mouth. "I'm not- I'm not going anywhere."

"Sorry," Lewis whispers back. "Sorry. I just-"

"Yeah." Martin slides his palm down to the dip of Lewis' waist, the tip of his little finger sliding into the waist of Lewis' sleep shorts. It's strange, and exciting and terrifying. "I'm going to-"

"Okay."

The chapped, rough skin at the heel of Martin's palm catches on the soft hairs on Lewis' thigh, pulling at them. Goosebumps rise across Lewis' arms as he squirms, hips turning in. His legs are angled weird, trapped by Martin's, but he still has to swallow down a moan when Martin's fingers dip into the crease of his thigh, following the path of it. 

And Patrick- Patrick hadn't had to touch him. Patrick had just guided him along, and the embarrassment still burns somewhere low in Lewis' belly, but it's being pushed aside by a different heat as Martin's thumb skitters over the damp head of his dick. This, this is much better. 

"Tell me if I'm doing it wrong," Martin says quietly, fist closing tentatively around Lewis' cock. His grip is too loose, and it's a little dry, but Lewis keeps looking up and seeing the curve of Martin's mouth, the brightness of his eyes, and it's perfect. 

"Let me-" Lewis struggles to fit his arm between them, elbow rubbing against Martin's as he shoves his hand into Martin's boxers. 

Martin feels warm and heavy against his palm, thick. When Lewis skims a fingertip over the head, sticky precome slicks the movement. Martin's eyes flutter shut, his eyelashes pale against his cheeks, lips parted. It's- It's beautiful. 

Together, they start an awkward, halting rhythm. Lewis' elbow bangs into the soft inside of Martin's with each stroke, and the angle is weird, a cramp already in his hand, working its way up into his wrist. Still, he pushes up into Martin's fist, hips jerking unsteadily, and he feels it all the way to his toes when Martin moans into his shoulder, high and lilting. 

"Why weren't we doing this years ago?" Martin asks, breathless. He presses his knee up, right between Lewis' thighs, and the pressure against his balls is just- it's the best thing he's ever felt. 

"Because-" Whatever Lewis had to say is lost when he feels the sticky, wet heat of Martin coming into is fist. 

And this, this is nothing like when Patrick had come on him, startled and dirty. Martin shakes against him like he's cold, hand almost too tight. Lewis whines. He hears his sisters climbing out of bed, and Jesus that's a turn off. 

"Oh my god," Martin mumbles. His rhythm's gone sloppy, lazy and loose again. He kisses the space under Lewis' chin, mouth open and wet and slick. "Oh my god."

"Let me just-" Lewis pulls his shorts down, knocking Martin's hand away. It almost hurts, losing his touch, but Martin just pulls him close when Lewis straddles him, sucking idly on a patch of skin over Lewis' chest. 

Lewis rocks against the warm, slick pressure of Martin's thigh, his dick slipping in and out of the soft cotton of Martin's boxers. It's good, it's really good, and it gets better when Martin's hand slides around to palm at his ass, fingernails digging in. He's close, he's so close. 

"Come on," Martin says, voice rough, eyes dark as he watches. "The sooner you get off, the sooner we can try fucking." 

And, hey, Lewis' body is down with that plan. He jerks, and he sees the dark patch of come seeping through the leg of Martin's boxers before he has to shut his eyes, everything inside of him suddenly focused inside his dick. 

Lewis collapses down onto the mattress, out of breath and sticky and sleepy. He feels Martin kick his underwear off- and they're going to burn those, if they want to have any more sleep overs- and he spares a moment to be sad that he can't see. Still, Martin gathers him up and holds him, fitting their legs back together again. 

If feeling Patrick hard against him for the first time was weird, feeling Martin's soft, damp dick against his is positively alien. Still, he's sure he can get used to it. It's just going to take some practice. 

"We should thank them," Martin says later, when the sounds of the house get too loud to ignore. He looks as tired as Lewis feels, but happy. Lewis' chest swells. 

"What, the band?" He asks. Martin nods. "Sure. Lets just send a gift basket to, what, their van?"

Martin raises his eyebrows and reaches for his pants. Cold air rushes in where they'd been pressed together. Lewis shivers and tugs him back in, unwilling to give up being so close just yet. He feels something cold and solid pressed against his back, and he frowns. 

"What is that?" He asks, and Martin laughs. 

"Patrick's cell phone," he says. When he flashes it in front of Lewis' face, Lewis shakes his head. "Want to make a thank you call?"

Homecoming might just have been Lewis' best idea yet.

 


End file.
